In this way, Doniger had managed to keep silent about the most extraordinary scientific discovery of the late twentieth century. In part, his silence was self-preservation: other companies, like IBM and Fujitsu, had started their own quantum research, and even though Doniger had a four-year head start on them, it was in his interest that they not know exactly how far he had gone.
He also was aware that his plan was not yet completed, and he needed secrecy to finish. As he himself often said, grinning like a kid, "If people knew what we were up to, they'd really want to stop us."
But at the same time, Doniger knew that he could not maintain the secrecy forever. Sooner or later, perhaps by accident, it was all going to come out. And when that happened, it was up to him to manage it.
The question in Doniger's mind was whether it was happening now.
He watched as the ambulances pulled out, sirens whining.
"Think about it," he said to Kramer. "Two weeks ago, this company was buttoned down tight. Our only problem was that French reporter. Then we had Traub. That depressed old bastard put our whole company in jeopardy. Traub's death brought that cop from Gallup, who's still nosing around. Then Johnston. Then his four students. And now six techs going to the hospital. It's getting to be a lot of people out there, Diane. A lot of exposure."
"You think it's getting away from us," she said.
"Possibly," he said. "But not if I can help it. Especially since I've got three potential board members coming day after tomorrow. So let's button it back down."
She nodded. "I really think we can handle this."
"Okay," he said, turning away from the window. "See that Stern goes to bed in one of the spare rooms. Make sure he gets sleep, and put a block on the phone. Tomorrow, I want Gordon sticking to him like glue. Give him a tour of the place, whatever. But stay with him. I want a conference call with the PR people tomorrow at eight. I want a briefing about the transit pad at nine. And I want those media dipshits at noon. Call everybody now, so they can get ready."
"Right," she said.
"I may not be able to keep this under control," Doniger said, "but I'm sure as hell going to try."
He frowned at the glass, watching the people clustered outside the tunnel in the dark. "How long until they can go back in the cave?"
"Nine hours."
"And then we can mount a rescue operation? Send another team back?"
Kramer coughed. "Well . . ."
"Are you sick? Or does that mean no?"
"All the machines were destroyed in the explosion, Bob," she said.
"All of them?"
"I think so, yes."
"Then all we can do is rebuild the pad, and sit on our asses to see if they come back in one piece?"
"Yes. That's right. We have no way to rescue them."
"Then let's hope they know their stuff," Doniger said, "because they're on their own. Good fucking luck to them."
31:40:44
Through the narrow slit of his helmet visor, Chris Hughes could see that the tournament stands were filled - almost entirely with ladies - and the railings crowded with commoners ten deep. Everyone was shouting for the tournament to begin. Chris was now at the east end of the field, surrounded by his pages, trying to control the horse, which seemed upset by the shouting crowd and had begun to buck and rear. The pages tried to hand him a striped lance, which was absurdly long and ungainly in his hand. Chris took it, then fumbled it as the horse snorted and stomped beneath him.
Beyond the barrier, he saw Kate standing among the commoners. She was smiling encouragement at him, but the horse kept twisting and turning, so he could not return her gaze.
And not far off, he saw the armored figure of Marek, surrounded by pages.
As Chris's horse turned again - why didn't the pages grab the reins? - he saw the far end of the field, where Sir Guy de Malegant sat calmly on his mount. He was pulling on his black-plumed helmet.
Chris's horse bucked once more and turned him in circles. He heard more trumpets, and the spectators all looked toward the stands. He was dimly aware that Lord Oliver was taking his seat, to scattered applause.
Then the trumpets blared again.
"Squire, it is your signal," a page said, handing him the lance once more. This time, he managed to hold it long enough to rest it in a notch on his pommel, so that it crossed the horse's back and pointed ahead to his left. Then the horse spun, and the pages yelled and scattered as the lance swung in an arc over their heads.
More trumpets.
Hardly able to see, Chris tugged at his reins, trying to get the horse under control. He glimpsed Sir Guy at the far end of the field, just watching, his horse perfectly still. Chris wanted to get it over with, but his horse was wild. Angry and frustrated, he yanked hard at the reins one final time. "Goddamn it, go, will you?"
At this, the horse snapped his head up and down in two swift motions. The ears went flat.
And he charged.
Marek watched the charge tensely. He had not told Chris everything; there was no point in frightening him any more than necessary. But certainly Sir Guy would try to kill Chris, which meant he would aim his lance for the head. Chris was bouncing wildly in the saddle, his lance jerking up and down, his body swaying from side to side. He made a poor target, but if Guy was skilled - and Marek had no doubt that he was - then he would still aim for the head, risking a miss on the first pass in order to make the fatal hit.
He watched Chris jolt down the field, precariously hanging in the saddle. And he watched Sir Guy charging toward him, in perfect control, body leaning forward, lance couched in the crook of the arm.